The Teacher’s Daughter

Whispers rippled through the class.

Jasper—the one who had actually taken the money—never dared to raise his head, his body trembling the entire time.

Mom gave me no chance to explain.

She took a sheet of paper from her table and, with a red pen, scrawled several crooked words across it: I will never steal again.

“Hold this and run five laps around the field,” she said coldly.

“If you can’t, don’t bother coming back to class.”

I didn’t dare resist, and even if I had, it wouldn’t have mattered.

No one would believe that the money had come from Mom.

They would only think she had placed justice above family ties—a truly good teacher.

I held up the paper and shuffled step by step along the rubber track.

Sweat ran into my eyes, stinging painfully.

Behind the classroom windows, I saw rows of heads pressed against the glass.

They watched me as if I were some ridiculous clown performing for their amusement.

The pride of a thirteen-year-old girl was hurt terribly.

By the time I finished the five laps, I was nearly collapsing.

Mom waited for me at the gate of the field.

There was not a trace of pity on her face.

All she said was, “If you dare to steal again, running laps won’t be the only punishment,” before turning and walking back to the classroom.

After that day, nothing in the class ever went missing again.

Privately, the students said that Mom was ruthless, but that it certainly worked.

Their gazes toward me carried a little more pity, but no one dared to get too close to me.

My thoughts returned to the present.

I floated beside my mother and watched her fingers trace the engraved patterns on the medal.

Smiling, she sent a message to my phone.

[I know you’ve been wronged, Evie.

[You’ve been my greatest contributor. Without you, how could the class atmosphere be this good?

[When I’m done at the ceremony, I’ll cook your favorite barbecue pork ribs. How about that?]

I stared at the words.

A soul couldn’t cry, yet I still felt like weeping.

She was always like this.

When no one else was around, she treated me a little better.

She called me her good daughter, slipped me some pocket money, and patted my head while telling me she loved me.

But the moment it involved her students, I became the sharpest blade in her hand.

I watched her expression darken as she waited for a reply that never came, and I spoke softly.

“Mom, the daughter who stole the money is dead. Are you happy now?”

…

During a break in the ceremony, Mom went to the restroom.

I followed her and watched her touch up her makeup in the mirror.

Her phone lay on the sink, its screen lit up with a chat conversation between her and the school director, Mr. Michael Fairfax.

[This time in the final exams, our class ranked first in the grade again for average scores. Thanks to you, Helena.]

[It’s only right. The children worked hard.]

[Oh, right—about that cheating incident last time. You handled it very promptly. Otherwise, the impact would’ve been terrible.]

[It was simply my duty.]

My gaze fell on the words, and my heart tightened as though gripped by an invisible hand.

That time had been during the midterm exam.

The proctor was a teacher from the neighboring class, focused entirely on the front of the room and oblivious to the student sitting ahead of me, secretly glancing at a small cheat sheet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mom walk in through the back door.

She circled and stopped beside my seat, lingering there for a few seconds.

I assumed she was checking the discipline in the room and instinctively straightened my posture.

But then, I felt something fall beside my shoe.